Blaming Bulldog
Killing Machines: Entry to Top Ten Stories prompt issued by Tim Sabo
Based on a true story that took place in South Africa.
This piece was inspired by a prompt for The Top Ten Stories by Timothy J. Sabo and is part of a series of fictional pieces which aims to explore some current social issues. This one focuses on the prompt: The Killing Machines
Tom pulled the keys from the ignition of the old Ford F-250. The truck was a relic and on its last legs, but he and Lydia had chosen it together the same year she gave birth to Josh. The Ford belonged to her. Now, with her gone, it was a keepsake. The less he changed, the closer she felt.
Tom and Josh exited the truck to the ticking sound of the cooling engine. Another day in the high nineties softened the lot tarmac.
How the boy lingered in the shadows of the awning drew Tom’s attention. The kid looked out of place, his eyes darting furtively, left then right. Unlike most kids from this neck of the woods, his pale and mottled skin was unaccustomed to the summer sun. Further, he did not carry the baseball bat as much as he brandished it. The only parks suitable for knocking a ball around were far from walking distance to the strip mall. For reasons Tom could not pinpoint, he felt a momentary stirring of unease and shuffled Josh to the other side of him.
When Lydia passed away, Tom’s mom stepped in to help with raising Josh. When Grandma Gibson wanted ice cream, they did as they were asked. Suddenly he wished to complete the task as quickly as possible and leave the shopping center.
The bell over the door tinkled their entry, and they were greeted with a blast of cool air. Sweat had already soaked the back of his shirt, plastering the cotton fabric to his back. Josh grinned over his shoulder and headed to the magazine rack at the front of the store. Tom stopped short of telling the teen to stay close. Whatever flight of fancy he was having, he wouldn’t inflict it on the boy. He nodded at Josh and made his way to the dairy section at the back of the store as he’d done a hundred times before.
Unlike him, Josh was a gearhead and wanted nothing more than to be 18-months older and have a license and a car. Committed to seeing his dream, Josh picked up a part-time job doing random yard work. Tom’s part in the enterprise was to provide transportation if the job was too far for Josh to ride his bike. Now, having finished an afternoon of yard work in the blazing sun, Josh sought motivation.
A hot rod magazine would fit the criteria nicely. He’d be damned if he would dampen the boy’s enthusiasm with irrational restrictions because of some temporary mental aberration.
He was a father who contentedly anticipated a ride home, listening to his son’s enthusiastic chronicling of various after-market add-ons with corresponding performance improvement expectations.
The dairy cooler was an easy find, and he made his selection as per Gran’s request.
He grabbed the carton of ice cream and stepped back to hold the door open for a short, rotund man of indeterminate age. The pugnacious pout of his lips stated his bent, as did the sloppy belly that hung over a huge silver belt buckle. The man had the look of a bulldog, all jowls and wattle that wagged over a sweat-stained collar. Tom stood aside, holding the door wide. However, rather than relieve him of the burden, Bulldog reached into the cooler, selected his ice cream and stalked off, leaving Tom holding the door.
Tom looked after the retreating figure, at the flapping shirttails over the low-slung jeans and laced boots, and shook his head.
With an inward grimace at what the view would have been if not for the shirt, Tom dropped the door closed to the cooler and fell in step a few paces behind. Despite the untucked shirttails, which he was disinclined to examine too closely, the handgun on the man’s hip was clearly visible. No doubt it was the added machismo of the firearm that lent to the swagger.
He’d never quite understood the need himself. He got the whole Second Amendment deal. He was an American and a proud one. He believed, like many folks, that violence begets violence and had mixed opinions on the availability of firearms, much less the right to carry.
More than anything, he lived by the school of thought, you do you.
Without warning, the fat man stopped in the middle of aisle seven causing Tom to nearly run into him. He stared straight ahead. Something seemed off, and his posture alerted Tom to pay attention. Of course, his sixth sense had been working overtime since they entered the parking lot. Tom’s attention remained on the fat man, who had moved behind a small vitamin C display. Following the man’s bug-eyed gaze, Tom looked to the front of the store.
The cashier, eyes huge and terrified, emptied the cash drawer and handed it over to the kid with the bat. Josh stood frozen behind the two figures, his eyes wide, a magazine still open in his hands.
Josh.
The soft murmurings of Bulldog cleared the haze, turning the air electric. The words hung in the air, gasoline on the fire.
“Just like at the range. Aim. Squeeze.” Bulldog’s fat lips were working, his face beaded with sweat, and his right arm slowly reached toward his hip.
“No. You’ll hit my son or the teller.” Tom’s voice sliced through the thin air in the small grocery, catching the attention of the terrified teller and the young man wielding the Louisville slugger.
The five stood frozen, each waiting for the next move. With random viciousness, the thief brought the end of the bat into the teller’s abdomen, knocking the wind out of her. She crumpled to her knees. Tom heard the exhale of breath from feet away and clenched his teeth.
As she slowly fell from sight behind the cash register, Josh turned and ran toward Tom, sliding into the aisle as he’d done a hundred times on the field.
Josh righted himself. Tom pushed Josh behind him in a shielding gesture. If the idiot with the gun started shooting, there was no telling how it could go.
This was where it should end; the holdup was done. The creep had his money. A spindly kid armed with a bat would not take on two men and a fit teen. Good luck with that. The teller was hurt but alive. He was free to go without further injury or escalation.
Tom was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he heard it again. Bulldog had his right hand on the butt of the gun, unclipping the holster, his fat lips trembling. His left hand shook violently. The ice cream had dropped to the floor at his feet, condensation gathering on the cardboard container.
“Just like the range. Draw your weapon. Aim. Squeeze.”
Tom looked back and forth between Bulldog and the kid. “Don’t. Don’t do it, Man. Let him go.”
With wild eyes, the kid issued an inhuman howl of rage and frustration and charged toward them.
Bulldog, with hands shaking, almost had the weapon cleared but fumbled at the last second and caught the muzzle tip on the holster. In a timeless, slow-motion play, the gun tumbled through the air and clattered to the floor. Once there, it continued sliding forward toward the front of the store, coming to a stop at the thug’s feet.
The kid picked it up. His smile of triumph revealed drug-rotted teeth.
Tom lunged for Josh, who had squeezed out from behind him as the first shot sounded in the room. The sound of the report appeared to stun the kid, and he began to back away. Tom looked first at the stunned kid and then at Josh.
Josh was on the floor, bloody hands over his belly.
Tom pulled Josh up to a seated position. “Can you walk?”
“I can’t. It’s my legs, Dad,“ Josh said. Stunned, his skin ashen, Josh blinked rapidly.
“I’ll carry you. You’re going to be fine, son. You’re going to be fine.” Tom scooped Josh into his arms. The words repeated in his head. I can’t. It’s my legs. As the brain is wont to do, multiple horrible outcomes played out in Tom’s head, each more horrifying than the last. He carried his son boldly to the end of the aisle.
Get help. This is Josh. Get him help.
“I’ll shoot you both if you take another step,” the kid said. He’d regained his calm, emboldened by the gun.
“My son’s shot. He’ll survive if you let me get him help.”
The kid appeared to consider but kept the gun trained on them.
Tom nodded to Bulldog. “It was that motherfucker who decided to bring a gun to a grocery store.”
Narrowed eyes shifted to the whimpering Bulldog. Tom looked over his shoulder at Bulldog, standing in sodden pants, a pool of urine around his boots.
“Let us go,” His voice was louder than before, higher. Panic. Keep calm. He’s a kid no older than Josh. You can talk to him. Time slowed, and the air grew thick.
Tom continued to the end of the aisle. The kid raised the pistol. With Josh in his arms, he put his son right in the line of fire if the idiot pulled the trigger. Hell, even if the kid merely flinched and accidentally fired, Josh would take the bullet. Tom lowered Josh to the floor. Josh began to cry and clutched at his shirt.
“Trust me, son. You’re going to be okay.”
He stood up and faced the kid. “Listen, you don’t want to do this. Let me get my boy help. None of us can come back from this if you don’t let me leave. None of us. If you keep us here, this goes from mere petty theft to an armed robbery hostage situation.” Tom looked at his son on the floor. “Murder, if you stop me from getting my boy help.”
“You some kind of fucking lawyer?” The kid started panicking and ranting, waving the gun wildly in arcs through the air.
Behind the kid, through the plate glass windows that spanned the front of the grocery store, Tom could see two, then three, police cars. Sirens were off. Tom returned his focus to the kid. Things were about to get especially dicey, leaving only seconds to convince the spiralling looter not to add murder to his crime spree.
“Kid, seriously, let us go. You shot my son, but you’re no murderer.”
The words were lost. The kid’s attention was now on Bulldog. Tom turned to see Bulldog pointing out the silent arrival of the police. Tom’s hatred of Bulldog flared as he looked at the front of the freak’s piss-stained britches and tear-streaked jowls, his fat digit removing any chance of getting Josh out before an ugly standoff.
The kid looked out the window and immediately ducked behind the magazine rack. Josh clawed at Tom’s pant legs, his eyes glazing, growing more distant with every moment.
Tom stooped and touched his brow. His skin had a layer of greasy sweat and was cold to the touch.
“Kid, you’ve got to let me go. I’ll put in a word for you. I’ll tell the police you didn’t bring the gun. You just have to let us leave.”
“Fuck you.”
Time had lost meaning as the cops tried to reason. Their attempts resulted in the kid blasting a couple random shots that smashed the plate glass windows. Shattered glass covered the front of the building and sidewalk. A crowd gathered, phones up. More police cruisers arrived, and the new arrivals immediately busied themselves maintaining order over the rapidly escalating hullabaloo. The kid remained behind the magazine rack, seated in the safe spot behind the cement blocks of the lower front wall, eyes blank.
The temperature increased as the air-conditioned air escaped through the shattered windows.
Josh’s condition worsened, and his breath came in short gasps. Unseeing eyes stared. Tom knew there was little time. That perhaps it was already too late. He also knew if Josh died, he didn’t want to go on.
There was but one choice.
He stood slowly and observed the kid. In an explosive burst, Tom rushed the little bastard. A shot rang out, and searing pain in his shoulder left little doubt about what had happened. He landed on the stinking wretch and grabbed at his hands. The kid was wiry and significantly more agile than he looked. He bashed the side of Tom’s head with the gun. Having dazed Tom, the kid slipped from his grasp and stood up to run.
Once he stood, shots rang from outside the building, and the kid fell. He’d made himself visible to the waiting police, the gun in his hand detectable. His thin frame bucked twice and fell motionless to the floor.
He was no older than Josh.
Tom could see the teller when he rolled to his stomach, coming to his knees. Her knees were pulled to her chest, mascara streaking her red cheeks.
Josh.
Tom crawled back to his son and could hear the voices of the police. In moments, two cops were in the window, guns trained on the kid. Two more were in the doorway.
Tom reached Josh and pulled him close.
People were speaking. Some voices were soft, others shouting. The gun-toting Bulldog maintained the fetal position and wept, snot hanging off his chin. None of it mattered.
Josh was gone. He had died alone on the filthy grocery store floor while Tom wrestled with the kid.
He’d left him alone.
Tom did what he thought he must and cradled his son.
He’d left him alone.
His boy, who had wanted to be 18-months older so he could drive.
In aisle seven, the two containers of ice cream melted and mingled with urine and blood.
Sirens sounded, and he wept.
Sherry McGuinn; Geoffrey Gevalt; Helen Hensell; Sudarsan Karki-SuperSudar; Logan Silkwood; Annie Trevaskis; Uwem Daniels; JF Danskin; PJ Jackelman; Timothy J. Sabo.g
